


Eat Me Alive

by noun



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Incest, Kneeling, Possessive Sex, Sex While Washing Off The Blood of Their Enemies, Sex as powerplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23588680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noun/pseuds/noun
Summary: It is so quiet in the room that the doors being thrown open is loud enough to shock Eleanor into flinching away, and curl against Alec’s chest and into his arms like she is a child again, fleeing night terrors. His grip tightens as the yelling starts, and she opens her eyes to the palace guard flooding the room with light and noise and bodies. She can see more clearly now, see her uncle’s body and the bodies of the guards that Alec must have killed as well to manage to get to their uncle.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Queen Sister/Brother Who Put Her On The Throne
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	Eat Me Alive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arbitrarily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitrarily/gifts).



> And when people come  
> You brag about the things you've done  
> All your empires conquered  
> Your chosen altars  
> Of many I'm still one.
> 
> JOHNNYSWIM - Souvenir

“Alec?”

She says his name softly, knowing it will break the tableaux in front of her like brittle glass. Slowly, he turns back to face her. The room is dark, the windows casting grids of light across the floor that leave him and the throne in partial shadow. Still, the blood, sticky and wet, glitters.

Their uncle is slumped forward, chin to his chest, his legs kicked out before him. Further back, she can see lumps on the ground, swords out of reach and discarded on the floor like toys.

Eleanor closes the door behind her. She’d only opened it wide enough to slip inside, disturbed by the lack of guards at the entrance and the suddenness of her uncle’s summons. But he was the regent and had been since her father’s death; even though she now had her majority, he was to be obeyed. 

Her slippers make no noise as she walks towards Alec. She avoids the spreading blood as she gets closer. Absently, she worried about the carpet—surely this will be difficult to scrub out.

Alec’s breathing is heavy and ragged, and smells like wine. He holds his sword loosely; the tip rests on the stone. She has lost his attention; he is again staring at their uncle. He has none of the dignity or presence he had in life, she thinks.

She had not feared him. She had accepted his theft of what was rightly to be hers as an inevitability—her father was weak, lustful, and ill-liked. Her uncle might have even arranged the drunken hunting accident that killed her father. She had been far too young to take the throne, and although the idea of crowning Alec had occurred to several people, bastard and half-brother though he was, her uncle had stepped neatly into the void left by their father and assumed control. He would have killed his niece if he thought she was a threat, so she made herself nonthreatening, and waited.

It has paid off, if not in the way she expected.

She tries to uncurl his fingers from around the sword, but she doesn’t have the will to hurt him, to dig her nails into the joints and make him drop it, or the strength to pry them. The attempt at least pulls his attention. He sheathes the sword, slowly, first wiping it on his coat to clean it. The stain it leaves is dark. Alec wraps his arm around her waist, and as he takes a step forward, she is dragged along. Her slippers stain dark, and she is thrown by the heat coming off the blood. She nearly says something as he grabs their uncle’s arm, letting her go as he tears the signet ring off his finger, and grabs Eleanor’s wrist. He slides it first on her ring finger—it is too large, and she has to close her hand into a fist to keep it from dropping to the floor amidst the mess. It, too, is warm.

It is so quiet in the room that the doors being thrown open is loud enough to shock Eleanor into flinching away, and curl against Alec’s chest and into his arms like she is a child again, fleeing night terrors. His grip tightens as the yelling starts, and she opens her eyes to the palace guard flooding the room with light and noise and bodies. She can see more clearly now, see her uncle’s body and the bodies of the guards that Alec must have killed as well to manage to get to their uncle.

But they hesitate. They halt halfway into the room, glancing between the pooling blood and her and Alec.

“Princess,” one says, and from the plume upon his cap, she knows him to be the captain. She squeezes Alec’s arm, and he loosens his hold, startled.

“The King is dead,” she says, making sure to project her voice.

It is obvious, to her, but some of them may not have made the connection. She knows she has them when the one with the plume kneels, and says, “Long live the Queen.”

* * *

Several times, they have tried to pull Alec away, to separate them. Some have been more subtle than others, the captain requesting that Alec come ‘discuss what had happened’, someone slipping between them while she walked back to her suite. Eleanor had said no outright to the first, and had stopped walking entirely at the second. The guard obeyed her, in a hesitant way she misliked. They had been featherlight with their loyalty before, and would now have served three rulers in a decade. She, seemingly meek and mild, could not risk them developing opinions of her suitability this early on. Despite her own turmoil, she could not let it show nor appear to be anything other than wholly composed.

So she keeps Alec close, holding his arm like an escort the entire time. She does not care how it looks, for she would rather have the comfort of his presence though he remains mute, his face cold and hard. Even as a little girl, she had been able to pull smiles from him. He had always been indulgent and so very careful with her, like she was delicate in truth rather than in polite expectation of her sex.

He has killed four men tonight, and at least three of them were competent swordsmen, and he is armed and bloody still. She draws comfort from it; from the distance they give her and her brother for it.

Before her door, she gives directions—who she expects to speak with in the morning, who ought to be called to the palace, and so on. It will only be a handful of hours. Eleanor thinks they can be left alone for that long without causing trouble, so she makes her excuses and closes the doors after them.

“Alec,” she says. She says it softly, now, and she is very gentle with him as she brings him deeper into the room. He comes, and she leads him to the bathroom. Half of her thoughts circle round what she must do tomorrow, but she does not need to think hard to unbuckle his sword belt, and place it to the side. She will give it right back, when he is not allover bloody. "Help me with your boots. I can't, not by myself. _Please_ , Alec."

Slowly, he turns his head, and looks at her. She reaches up and cups his cheek. Blood flakes off his skin, he closes his eyes and exhales, and she can feel the heat against the thin skin of her wrist. Then, he opens them, and bends to remove his own boots, methodically setting them against the wall.

“ _Thank you_ ,” she says, and she means it. “Oh, Alec, I was so frightened, I thought—”

She had thought nothing good when her uncle had summoned her so late at night, and had requested speed over formality.

“It does not matter,” she starts, and then Alec pulls away, and she does not understand, at first, and then he is on his knees, and gazing up at her.

She does not understand even when he presses his forehead to her belly, curls his hands into her over robe. She only knows that she pities him terribly, feels an awful sort of tenderness. The light in the bathroom is better than the room, thrown off her mirrors in such a way that it illuminates gently. Half his face is still in shadow, but he licks his lips and they glitter.

“It’s done,” he says, and she combs her fingers back through his hair so he can’t hide behind it.

She had always pitied him, pitied his position so far removed from hers. Pitied him for his appetites, his unwillingness to navigate treacherous political situations that he had not the patience for, for ever bruise and rebuke he’d earned for it. But, in the end, simple decisive action had won him what four years of politicking and patience on her part had not.

He grabs the hem of her nightgown, still unstained. On instinct alone, she steps back, spooked. His hold does not loosen, and unless she wants to tear her nightgown, she is anchored in place.

"Don't leave," he says, and instantly, she falls into the role of conciliator, stroking his hair again. 

"I won't," she says, "I won't go."

He presses his face to her nightgown, and she keeps stroking his hair, aware now of how the blood on his hands and face has stained the fabric.

"You need to be cleaned up," she says, and when he does not protest, she pulls away.

The shower is a small glass box, and she leaves the door open as she turns it on, standing out of the flow of the water. Even then, when she turns back around, Alec is there, hovering. 

As if it was her idea all along, she says, "Come here," and guides him into the water, still fully clothed. She is glad twice over she removed his sword, and his boots. Her slippers are a lost cause, and she toes them into a corner.

The water does not remove the blood. Not all at once. First, it bleeds into his clothes, staining anything light. It does not fade, not entirely, and she is left struggling with his buttons, dropping his jacket and shirt both into the water. Just to be sure, she checks him for wounds, running her hands over his chest, turning him to see his back, finally satisfied the blood is not his own.

Eleanor is sopping wet now too, her nightgown soaked and clinging. The water is warm, even hot, but that does not ward off the chill. She folds her arms, and looks at him. He has been coming back to himself, bit by bit.

"You'll need to take off your trousers yourself," she says, and he nods, mute, and unbuttons them, letting them and his boxers both fall. All the blood that was on the hem of his pants swirls down the drain, diluted pink. Again, she looks him over for cuts, for the lucky strike from one of their uncles' men, and finds none.

But he is hard, the water running down his chest splitting into two streams at the base of his cock.

"You're safe," he says. The water has pulled his hair down over his eyes, his curls undone by the heat. "You're safe now, Nora."

Like she was a child again.

He steps forward, and the shower is so small that Eleanor is already against the wall.

"Alec," she says, and then he leans down and kisses her, no tongue, only the press of his lips and the lingering sourness of wine. But he has her against the wall, nude, and she's near enough to the same, her nightgown waterlogged. His cock presses into her belly, caught between them, and when she squirms, he moans, and then his tongue is in her mouth.

She kisses him back. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him back, letting his tongue probe into her mouth, letting him grind against her stomach with hitches of his hips that drive her nightgown further and further up her thighs.

She ought to have realized he wanted-

"Eleanor," he breathes, when he pulls away, and she is sure she is flushed pink, all over, and she turns her face. This does not deter him. He kisses her cheek and then drops to his knees. Against the glass, she has nowhere to go, and he pulls her nightgown up, exposing her cunt. 

"Let me," he says, and "I want," and she breathes out, " _Yes_ ," all while wondering what he could possibly want, now that their uncle is dead. That had been the extent of _her_ wants.

He presses his face to her cunt, and the water streams down his hair as he licks at her, knocking her knees wider in his impatience so he can fit a finger inside her, two, and she bucks against the curl of them, letting him work her inside and out. The water still runs pink.

On a third, she is riding his hand and impatient, gasping drowned by the shower while he suckles on her clit, tongue moving in counterpoint to his lips, and she comes so hard that she might have collapsed on the tile and split her head open, ending her reign abruptly and embarrassingly, if not for his strong hands.

He had to have been terribly strong, to cut down all those men. Well, in truth, to cut down all those men and keep going.

She is a slack and boneless thing as he props her up, pressing her now against the tile wall of the shower, out of the direct spray, and is agreeable as he drapes her legs around his waist. His hand even goes between the back of her head and the wall, which is where her head would have gone as he pulled her down onto him all at once, wet enough to abbreviate what could have been an easy slide. He fucks her with the same desperation he's shown all night, and when she has enough of herself to respond, she does, looking down at him as her breasts bounce with each thrust, letting him see her pleasured, letting him see her joyful.

He makes sure she comes again herself before he does, hot spurts into her that have her squirming, again coloring pink, and he lets her down, his cock soft and shriveled like her waterlogged fingers. He presses his forehead to hers, and she smiles, holding his head in her hands.

"Everything will be alright now," Eleanor promises him, and he smiles, brilliant, and she kisses him, though it is she who deepens it, and makes sure it stays sweet instead of desperate. 

"What will happen now?" he asks, and she wonders when the lunacy will fully fade, or if under his shyness and stubbornness, he was like this all the time. No, surely he had simply had all his anger drained at once, lanced like a boil, and all that was left was exhaustion and neediness. She felt half-empty herself, and already exhausted at the idea of all the work to come.

"I will be queen," she says, the thought she had never spoken aloud before.

" _And_?" he says.

"And I will set everything to rights," she promises. "Like in Grandfather's rule."

"Will you get married?" he asks, sudden. She is not sure where it comes from, so she decides to be honest, though she kisses him first to sweeten it, but he pulls away, waiting for her answer.

"I will need an heir," she hesitates, trying to sense the problem. 

" _I_ can be everything you need," he pleads. The water, lukewarm now, takes his seed where it leaks down her thigh down the drain same as their uncles' blood, but Alec has always been stubborn, and his cock thickens against his thigh, bobbing to life. He presses her against the wall again, lifting her against the tile, damnably strong, and she does not fight it or even voice protest. The second penetration is easier than the first, and even as he cups the back of her head again to save her from the hitching thrusts that drive her against the wall, he keeps talking.

"You don't need someone else. I can give you an heir. _I'll_ give you a dozen," he promises, and his smile is lopsided. 

"I can," he says, and goes to prove it. The thrust spears her, down to her core, and she clenches hard around him. He licks the water off the side of her neck, but he's smart enough not to sink teeth, even as her legs tighten around his waist, and her hold on the thick muscles of his shoulders is sure to leave some mark. She falls back down on his cock with each hitch, merciless, and he keeps talking in her ear about babies and promises and everything he'll do for her, what he's _done_ for her. She can't discern much while she comes, shaking in his hold, and it leaves her as damp as the clothes in the bottom of the shower, sodden lumps that have lost their original shape and crispness. He turns the water off, finally, but she notices it only in the phantom echos thundering around in her own brain.

He pulls out of her, and she whimpers, but he holds her close as he leaves the bathroom, coming back to the bed she'd left hours before. There are the yanked-back sheets, the spot where she'd curled up cold, having lost the heat of her body in the time between. Alec sets her on the edge, and pushes her thighs up, leaving her spread and open as he slides back inside, bent over her with her ankles by his ears.

"Say yes," he says, "say you'll let me," and Eleanor whines, back arching as much as the contorted position will allow. It's too much, too fast, and Alec has the single minded intensity of a madman as he resumes his rut, eyes wide and wild. Her wet skin sticks to the silk sheets as she writhes as she comes again, near pain this time, Alec panting above her, skin slapping skin and the wet squelch echoing in the cavernous room as he fucks his own seed out of her in a froth.

" _Say_ ," he wheezes, and then he comes again, all heat and stuttering hips, draped over her even after he's finished spilling.

Eleanor aches, bent into this position, and she is tired. Even the fading warmth from her orgasm leaves her feeling cold, and she will have so much to do in the morning. He is breathing strangely, and she hopes he does not want more from her, preparing for another round.

"Alec," she says, very gently, and then she realizes that he is sobbing.

"Oh," she says, "come here," and she holds her arms open. He pulls out of her, and she unbends her legs gingerly, just in enough time for him to press his wet face to her breasts and bury it between them. His hair is so difficult to stroke damp, but she murmurs nonsense, and kisses his forehead, and he quiets. She wipes his tears, and his breathing slows, and after some time, he even lets her go when she slides to the other side of the bed, and then out of it, to turn out the light in the bathroom and clean her sex. Then, finally, she is free to return to her bed. It is not as cold as she feared, and by the clock, not as late as she feared.

She will have so much to do tomorrow. Idly, she examines the signet ring on her finger, still loose. It will need to be resized.

Turning to look at Alec, she is relieved he was at least peaceful in sleep. She had underestimated him, and he had surprised her. She had no room for that before, and would have even less come sunrise. His outburst tonight was dangerous, and could not be repeated, but she is not afraid of him. Eleanor will to be careful with him, of course, but love is always a better leash than fear.


End file.
